


time, out of joint

by orphan_account



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), FlashForward, Kris Allen (Musician), Royalty RPF
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is never going to be finished. I just can't get into writing RPF anymore, even with a science fiction pastiche element. </p><p>I'm sorry, but I've tried, and I can't do it. For what it's worth, the characters' flashforwards provide a pretty good idea of how the story would have ended, if I hadn't developed a massive case of writer's block in relation to this RPF 'verse - I even wrote a whole other story, set in Ancient Greece, and hoped I'd be able to come back to this one refreshed, but that didn't happen, I'm afraid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was a patch of sunlight in his line of vision. A fly settled down in it and started rubbing its forelegs together. Somewhere, very far away, water was dripping into a pool. In the silence, each drop seemed to echo endlessly. He wished someone would fix it.

Kris blinked. Time passed. He blinked again. He slowly became conscious of the fact that he was lying full length on the ground, his cheek resting on some dusty old carpet that probably hadn't seen cleaning in years. Why was he lying there? He was breathing slowly and steadily, and his breaths were growing louder and louder in his ears.

He started to pull himself up off the floor, groaning like an old man as stiff limbs protested; he must have been lying as he’d fallen- when? When did all this happen, and where was he?

Behind him, he realised Cale and Andrew were getting to their feet, and Ryland had just slumped in his seat behind the drum set. So they were in the recording studio, and . . . what? And where was Adam? He’d been there, just a second ago. But they were in the studio, and why would Adam be there, and . . . he brushed the confused thoughts aside and tried to concentrate on what he could see around him. So, everyone had passed out? At the same time? But how was that possible? Had they been drugged?

No one was saying anything; everyone seemed to be lost in their own thoughts, and Kris, too, opened and shut his mouth a few times as he tried to think of what to say. He’d had a dream . . . or, was it? Had everyone dreamed? Were they all like his?

He turned around slightly to ask the sound engineers if _they_ had passed out too, and took one step forward, only to realize he had stepped into some water, which was rapidly soaking through his sneaker. He lurched around only to see Cale reaching for his guitar, which he must have dropped. It was still plugged in. His mind was stuttering. It was still plugged in and there was water everywhere and everything was still plugged in and if Cale touched it-

“Stop!”

Everybody froze. Kris knew he needed to speak faster than he had ever done in his life.

“There’s water everywhere! The leads . . . everything’s still on!”

Cale turned white, undoubtedly realizing how close he’d come to deep-frying himself. Kris yelled even louder hoping to be heard by the sound engineers- engineer. There was only one behind the glass, and he was looking fixedly at something on the floor next to his feet. Kris wanted to scream in frustration and horror, all the while thinking, is that other guy dead? I don’t even remember his name, and now he’s dead? He tried to gather his whirling thoughts, they had to focus; otherwise they’d all be dead.

“John. John!” At the sound of his name, the man behind the glass turned to look at them, dazedly. “I think he’s dead . . . he’s not breathing . . . I don’t . . .”

Kris closed his eyes, and forced himself to speak calmly and patiently.

“Listen, John.” John looked at him, clearly in shock. “We have some live wires in here, and there’s water. So we need you to use the master switch, or whatever there is, and switch everything off.”

John just nodded obediently, turned to the side and must have done something, because all the lights went out. Before Cale or anyone else could comment about how maybe they should have found a candle before plunging themselves into total darkness, Kris pulled out his phone. The light from the phone served as faint illumination, and Kris started scrolling through his contacts, frantically trying one number after another.

Around him, he sensed his friends doing the same, with the exact same result.

“Nothing.” Cale’s frustration and anger bled through the calm tone he tried to speak in. Kris gave up on trying to phone people, and used his phone as a torch, instead.

“Guys, let’s start unplugging things so that we can get the power back. Then we can get out of here without breaking our necks.”

As soon as the words left his lips, Kris wanted to bite them back. He looked towards the sound booth, flashing the light inside, but couldn’t see John. When he carefully picked his way inside it, he saw that John was sitting on the floor, with his head to the other man’s chest. He looked up at Kris.

“I think he’s dead.” John was trying to sound calm and detached, but really reminded Kris of a scared little boy. He suddenly felt resentful. Why did _he_ have to take charge? Why couldn’t he just sit around and let everyone else fix things? He squashed those thoughts as best he could, and helped John to his feet. He flashed the light quickly onto the dead man’s face – it was a cliché but he really looked like he was asleep. It was only the fact that his chest wasn’t moving that gave it away. He must have gone in his . . . sleep? His coma? What had happened to them, and how long had it happened for?

Andrew called from the next room to say that everything was off – still, to be sure, they shouldn’t be touching any wires or switches when John switched the power back on.

The lights flooded back into the room, blinding them momentarily. When they could see again, the scene before them was bizarre in its normality. Everything looked the same as it had, except there was a dead man on the floor.

Though the other part of the room looked like there’d been an earthquake – there were huge lakes of water, from the water cooler which had fallen over, and guitars and microphones were scattered around. Andrew and Ryland were going around, righting microphones and picking up guitars.

Kris looked at his watch, and was annoyed at himself. He hadn’t checked as soon as he’d got off the floor, so he wasn’t sure how much time had passed.

“Guys, I’ve found something!”

Cale sounded excited. “I recorded us with my laptop; I wanted to see how the new arrangement sounded – look, we can see if it’s recorded everything.”

They crowded round his laptop, and he quickly clicked on the progress bar to rewind ten minutes. It was eerie to watch themselves goofing around with no hint of what was coming up. The recording had a digital time counter in the corner, and Kris watched as the minutes counted down to 10 am, and then froze in horror as they all dropped to the ground. Kris had to fight to keep calm, even as Andrew started breathing quickly, and then turned around with a mutter of “I can’t watch this”.

Kris couldn’t turn away. Watching himself on the floor, unmoving, for a few minutes, was as horribly transfixing as a car crash. Time seemed to slow down, but soon the figures on the screen started stirring, and picking themselves up.

“Two minutes and eighteen seconds.”

Kris was still staring at himself freaking out on screen, and wished the laptop had been pointed at the sound booth. Though what could it have told them?

“What?” He pulled himself away with a wrench.

“That’s how long we were on the ground. Nearly two and a half minutes.” Ryland sounded calm enough, though inwardly he was probably freaking out too.  
“It’s weird. I thought I was somewhere else.”

Kris gaped at him. No, it couldn’t be. He’d just had a weird dream, that was all, and the fact that it seemed so, so real, didn’t matter at all.

“Dude, we were all dreaming.” Andrew scoffed slightly. “What’s important is why we all passed out at the same time.”

“I don’t dream.” Kris didn’t know why Ryland’s words were making him angry and terrified at the same time. He wanted nothing more than to shut him up, but the others were paying real attention to him now. “At least, I never remember what I dream. The few times I have, it was really fuzzy and weird. This time, I was _somewhere else_. And I was with Cale, and Chris.”

“Holy shit.” Chris looked as stunned as Kris felt. “We were having a beer in a sports bar, and talking about-“

“The summer tour.” Cale was leaning against the wall, his arms folded. He rubbed his face, pensively. He looked at Kris, his expression changing to a speculative one. Just as Cale opened his mouth to speak, Kris hurriedly interrupted, desperate to stop Cale from asking the obvious question.

“Are you guys serious? We’re standing here, talking about fucking dreams while God knows what’s happened?” Kris hoped he didn’t sound as fake as he felt. He just had to derail the discussion – any minute now someone would ask him what he had “seen”, or dreamed, and he was an incredibly bad liar. The truth . . . that was the worst proposition of all. But it couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t. Premonitions weren’t real. It was just a bizarre dream. Just how bizarre – well, he’d never admit that. To anyone.

Cale seemed to have given up on asking him, but a sideways look told Kris that this conversation wasn’t over, by any means.

“Why don’t we try to get online?”

Everyone turned to look at Andrew and he flinched slightly under their stares.

“I read somewhere the internet was designed to keep communication up in case of a nuclear war.”

Kris knew he must be looking really sceptical at that, because Andrew flushed.

Cale shrugged. “Might as well try.”

Kris wondered why no-one was suggesting just going outside, walking into the street. Well, why wasn’t he suggesting it?

“Why don’t we just . . . go out?” But even his own voice sounded doubtful. Ryland seemed to sum up what they were all thinking.

“I’m scared, man. We don’t know what’s out there. What if it’s-“

“Dude, if you say zombies, I’m hittin’ you with something.”

Cale’s dry tone diffused some of the tension that was building up. They managed to exchange weak smiles, and John plugged in an Ethernet cable he’d found. There was a broadband jack in the wall, but no phone. They waited impatiently as the laptop found a connection, and then Kris started up the browser with fingers that were trembling slightly.

“Here we go.”


	2. what Adam did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this is embarrassing. It's been over a month, hope you guys are still interested. In my defence, this story is kicking my ass!

For Adam, it starts like this.

“No, stop it!”

Adam is giggling, he’s grabbing Kris, who’s trying to get the remote from the floor, which is difficult as he’s got his legs wrapped around Adam’s waist, and if he reaches back any farther, they’re both falling off the couch – except Adam’s observing all this from inside himself, and he’s conscious that none of this has really happened, or is going to happen, or isn’t. He wants to look around him, see where he is, but his body isn’t following any of his orders – he’s just the observer here, he’s just along for the ride.

Even while Adam is trying to figure out what’s going on, his body is still moving, doing _stuff_ , tickling Kris into dropping the remote, laughing, and all the while the tv is on, in front of them, with an impossibly polished anchorwoman talking about something or other, while the headlines scroll by fast. Adam manages to glimpse one, _World waits for flashforwards to come true_ , whatever that means. The anchor seems pretty happy about it, though. She's talking to other journalists in different parts of the world, and he thinks he spots Anderson Cooper in the Red Square, surrounded by some kind of happy, partying crowd. The picture changes quickly to London, which seems more sombre (and he wonders about this), before he's distracted by Kris laughing and saying something about who _really_ wanted to watch tv, and pulling his head down.

Adam’s head moves towards Kris, and Adam realises, with a kind of muffled shock, that he’s kissing Kris, slowly, languidly, like they’ve done this so many times before that there’s no hurry, no urgency and frantic passion, but a slow burn. He pulls Kris closer, and he realises that he’s actually _inside_ Kris, anchored deeply, and this isn’t a dream, it’s nothing like a dream, in dreams you accept everything, no matter how strange, but this is too real, and in his head he’s protesting that there’s nothing between Kris and him, there never was, even their friendship had faded away, so what is this? What’s going on?

And then it’s over.

Adam’s in the corridor, going to the cafeteria. He catches a glimpse of himself in the lockers as he trudges by, and wishes he’d never dyed his hair – who knew it was going to turn out orange, anyway? He wonders why there’s no-one around, until he spots the giant banner stretched over the door, saying _Graduation Day!_ He looks down at himself in horror, realizing that he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and he’s barefoot, too.

He can still make it, though, as long as he gets home quickly - luckily, it's just through this corridor. His mom’s home, and he wants to ask her about his graduation gown, but she’s watching tv. So’s Neil. Adam looks at the screen. It’s some kind of hospital show – a man on a stretcher is being rolled fast to a waiting helicopter. The paramedics keep yelling at him.

“Adam! Adam, can you hear me? Adam!”

Huh. The guy in the show’s called Adam, too. Adam shrugs and goes to his room – why do they always do that, call people’s names? It’s not like they’re going to answer, he thinks. He opens his bedroom door, and starts rummaging through his clothes, but there’s Brad in the wardrobe, who grabs his hand, hissing about being late, come on Adam, we’re missing it. Which is bullshit, anyway, you can’t be late for Burning Man.

He’s so high, everything’s just so beautiful, it’s like he’s floating along, he’s walking but his feet never touch the ground, and there’s the wicker man in the distance, and they’ll set him on fire and become one with the earth and the sky, and everything will be, just. Wonderful.

He takes another hit, and wanders towards the big screen someone’s put up, just an enormous sheet of canvas, and they’re projecting on it with an old camera on a truck and a generator. It’s another hospital movie. With the same guy from before, but that can’t be, can it?

The guy’s in a bed now, and they’re putting all sorts of stuff on him and in him and a mask over his face, and Adam wants them to leave him alone, just let him be. They’re calling him again, Adam, Adam, Adam, and he just wants to run away.

Brad pulls him away, or is it Drake? No, it’s Brad, he’s kissing Brad, who wants to fuck, and so does Adam, he needs it so bad. They’re in the tent and rolling around and it’s so amazing and he’s so turned on, but he can’t. He can’t do anything, it _hurts_ , and Brad is gone, and people keep shouting at him.

“Wake up, Adam!”

He yells out, angrily, “I’m awake!”, and he _is_ awake, but why does he have to be? The show isn’t till this evening, why the fuck do they make him wake up so early every morning? Fucking cruise ships. He’s already sick of the songs he’s singing every night, and he’s tired of all the people he sees every day and night, always the same people.

He gets off the ship in L.A., and goes straight to the Nokia theatre – he can’t be late, it’s the finale today, how could he be late, today of all days. He goes straight to the dressing room, and his hair! It’s ginger again, and how did this happen? He has to dye it, quickly, he can’t perform like this, what was he thinking? He rushes out to tell Mezghan to get him some hair-dye, fast, and this time he’s _in_ the hospital, it’s not on tv anymore.

The room he saw in the tv show is there too, and the same guy is lying in the bed, covered in tubes and with a mask over his face. There’s beeping machines and breathing machines, and the guy looks familiar, but Adam can’t place him. He starts feeling really sleepy, so he decides to lie down. Someone’s stroking his hair, and he feels safe and comfortable. Might as well get some rest, he thinks. He’ll deal with everything in the morning.

But he can’t sleep. He opens his eyes, and it’s time. Terrance is pulling him up, laughing at him for being on the floor, and Adam just manages to grab the top hat before they all drag him on the stage. He loses himself in the performance and the audience, such an audience . . . they’re part of him, and he lets them touch him, and he spots some beautiful boys, and hopes they’ll stick around, and then- he’s driving to the studio, again.

Again? He’s working on the album, right? But which album? And which song? And which studio is he working at, anyway? He looks at the GPS for a clue, and there’s that tv show again, with the hospital, and the guy who’s been sleeping for a while now. The car disappears but Adam doesn’t notice, as he watches the sleeping man. The monitors are beeping steadily, and the man’s chest rises and falls.

It’s almost hypnotic, and Adam feels so tired.

He feels like he’s been walking forever, down this corridor. He wants to hurry up, he’s going to be late for class, but he can’t make himself run. He wonders for a moment why he’s still in high school, didn’t he graduate already? Years ago, even? But the thought vanishes once he gets to the notice-board. He wants to get in this summer’s production, even though it’s experimental theatre; some play he’s never even heard of, called _man in a coma_.

Adam shrugs. Acting is acting. It’s time to go home, so he gets in his mustang and starts driving to the studio. He’s late, he’s always late, but he’ll get there eventually.


	3. Kris has a bad day.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warning: This story takes place during and after an apocalyptic event, so there's going to be some death and destruction. No character death, though. That I promise.

Of course, they weren’t the only ones who were online.

Site after site, CNN, Fox News, CBS, even Yahoo and Google news were overloaded – either they took forever to load or just crashed immediately.

“Skype!”

Everyone turned to look at Ryland, who flushed under the sudden attention.

“We could try to Skype people . . . maybe . . . that would . . .”

He trailed off uncertainly, but Kris had already started Skype and looked at Cale – it was _his_ laptop after all.

Cale wouldn’t meet his eyes at first, and then just said, “Call your parents, dude.” He seemed ashamed, and while Kris was dialling he realised that Cale would rather put off any bad news – if he didn’t know about it, maybe it wouldn't be real. Yet.

Kris shook off the feeling of dread, and stared fixedly at the little phone icon – and then someone answered. When Kris saw his mom’s dazed face appear he almost cried.

“Oh Kris, honey . . .”

Her relief was immediate, and a few seconds later his dad joined her . . . his dad, who had blood on his face.

“Dad! Oh my god, what . . .”

“It’s ok, it’s nothing.”

His father tried to sound reassuring, though Kris could hear the slight tremor in his voice that he obviously wanted to suppress. “I hit my head when I passed out . . . when _we_ passed out. We just got Daniel on the landline, he’s fine too.”

Kris closed his eyes for a second, and allowed himself a moment of relief.

“Dad, I have to hang up – we need to find out about the others.”

His father nodded, and his mom seemed to want to say something, but Kris ended the call before she could finish. She probably wanted to ask about Katy, but he would get to that, he just needed . . . time, that was it, he needed some time. Katy had to be okay, he thought. And a sneaky little voice inside his head kept murmuring that he wouldn’t have been so happy in his dream if he’d been mourning his wife. We’re not believing in the dreams yet, he yelled back at the voice.

But a split second after he hung up, the ringtone sounded, and it was Katy, calling _him_.

“Kris! Kris, are you there?” The system must have been completely overloaded, there wasn’t a visual anymore, just audio.

“Yes, I’m here! Can you hear me? Thank god you’re ok!”

And here comes the guilt, Kris thought. While she was worrying about him, he’d been dreaming about fucking Adam, of all people. Where the hell had that come from? And why did everyone else around him take the dreams so seriously, he thought, ignoring the mental voice which pointed out that they’d all had the same one. Maybe he should ask Adam what _he'd_ dreamt about.

But he could hear Katy still, and she was crying. He was trying to reassure her and calm her down, which wasn't really working over a lagging connection, when everyone's cell phones started ringing at once. He told Katy he had to go, and begged her not to leave the house before they knew what was going on, and then, with her final “I love you” ringing in his ears, started to look up various webcams – at least they'd see what was going on oustide.

Miraculously, everyone who called seemed to be fine, and Kris could hear heartfelt expressions of relief and some tears, which he pretended not to notice. Soon Andrew and Cale wandered over to the laptop to join Kris, while Chris was still exchanging murmurs with his wife. Only John, who had heard nothing from his family and could not get through to anyone, ignored them in favour of stabbing repeatedly at his mobile, trying desperately to reach anyone.

Kris had about three webcams open at the same time, and refreshed one after the other, trying to spot any clue, any hint of what had happened. At first everything looked normal – and even though he’d never suspected it for a second, he was secretly relieved not to see shuffling bodies staggering through the sunny streets of LA. But still, there was something strange. There was the usual amount of traffic on some streets, but none of it was moving – and then, in a corner of one of the pictures, a cloud of smoke. The camera refreshed every 4 seconds: and the cloud grew, and grew. Kris was almost hypnotized by it – why wasn’t anyone putting out the fire?

He jumped when Cale’s hand landed on his shoulder – Cale’d been focusing on a different webcam, one that was only a few minutes away from the studio – a car was overturned, and someone’s arm was visible, through the open window. The people inside weren’t moving.

“We have to help them!”

It was Andrew who spoke, almost in tears, and again Kris felt that events were moving so fast and dragging him along, and none of them knew what was really out there, what had happened. But Andrew was right, and Cale was nodding, too. They had to see what they could do for those poor people.

“Fuck that. I need to find my family . . . I’m sorry.” Kris could see that John had reached the end of his rope.

“It’s ok – just, the roads look really jammed, you’ll have to walk-“

But John was already out the door, and was probably halfway down the corridor before Kris finished speaking.

“So.” Cale closed his laptop and put it in a backpack. “We have to get out of here, right now. Otherwise we’re gonna keep looking for excuses to stay. You coming?"

They all looked at each other, and Kris knew that they were probably thinking that they signed on to play in a band, not be a rescue mission, but, one after the other, Chris and Ryland nodded their agreement. Andrew was already walking through the door, thoughts of that family, helpless and injured in their car spurring him on.

When they opened the door to the street, Kris wished he’d thought to get earplugs with him. They’d forgotten that the studio was completely soundproofed, and the noise hit them like a hammer. For a moment they hesitated, stunned by the sirens, car alarms, helicopters, and the occasional explosion.

Kris wandered a few steps into the street, and was immediately grabbed by a woman with blood on her face.

“My baby! She’s still in the car, please, help me . . .”

She shook a little, and looked a bit crazy, but Kris and the others followed to where her car had crashed into a fire hydrant, when it happened. Whatever it was.

And that was mainly what Kris would remember from that day, the woman, covered in blood and almost insane with worry and panic, and her sobs of relief when they managed to get her baby girl out of the car, still strapped into her car seat.

It would be the most exhausting day of his life. The people he met, the bodies he pulled out of cars, they all started to blur together after a while, and the work became repetitive and almost mechanical. They moved from car to car, and were soon joined by others who were unhurt. Kris kept seeing National Guard helicopters overhead, some with Red Cross markings, and then they started landing, taking away the most badly injured, the ones who couldn't walk.

Kris was glad the soldiers got tarps with them, to cover the people who hadn’t made it. Some of them were children, and Kris couldn’t bear to look at them. One Guardsman came along with a tablet computer, asking them if they knew of any other casualties which needed to be removed (it took Kris a few seconds to realise that the soldier meant bodies), and Cale gave the address of the recording studio. Kris felt a twinge of guilt – he’d forgotten all about the sound tech.

While they worked, they talked about the Blackout – it’d been given a name, the weird _something_ that had happened everywhere at once, it seemed. Cale started to say something about not assuming it happened all over, and one of the guys from the crashed cars was already ranting about terrorists and Al Qaeda, when the young Guardsman who was checking the vitals of a soccer mom looked up and interrupted.

“It _did_ happen all over – the world, I mean. Not just us.”

Kris and Cale exchanged looks. What could have done this?

“People died, everywhere,” the Guardsman continued, his voice shaking slightly. He was really very young, Kris realised. The uniform and the air of competence was deceiving; the kid couldn’t be older than 20.

“But the President is ok,” he continued, and his tone of relief made Kris feel slightly ashamed that he hadn’t even thought of the fate of the government before now. Though, he thought resentfully, they’ve got the Secret Service and bunkers under the Whitehouse; what did we have? He found himself distracted and not really listening when the Guardsman told Cale about something really disastrous happening in England, because his mind kept going back to the dream. The fucking dream, _why_ wouldn’t it just leave him alone.

And as if signalled by his thoughts, Cale asked about the dreams too. Kris just wanted to yell at him to shut up – every mention of the dreams, as if they were something _shared_ , as if they were something _real_ , made him want to scream and shout at the sky. It was his life, he had a life, he couldn’t just give it all up for a dream.

“I’m not sure,” Private Ortega said. The tone of his voice, and his sudden guarded look suggested that he knew something, but realised he’d probably said too much.

“The President is holding a press conference in an hour,” he continued. “We’ll all know more then.”

Kris looked up and realised that they’d managed to clear most of the road full of crashed cars – he also realised, that some time had passed since he’d last sat down. He looked up as a huge truck bore down on them, packed with more Guardsmen.

“That’s my ride,” said Private Ortega, with some relief. He was looking a bit sheepish, probably wishing he hadn’t said so much.

“Hey, can we drop you guys off somewhere?”

Kris looked around him; it was just Cale left, the others had drifted away in the course of the afternoon, getting rides in trucks or helicopters, to try and get to their families. Though how successful they’d be in that, Kris wondered. Ortega had told them that all civilian air-traffic was grounded for the foreseeable future, and the military was only transporting civilians in cases of necessity.

“You might have to help us clear the roads on the way, is all,” the young Guardswoman driving the big truck continued.

“That’s fine by us,” said Cale, as he let himself be pulled up into the back; Kris followed, and just slumped in an empty space on one of the benches. One of the soldiers, a black man in his forties, smiled at him sympathetically. Kris introduced himself and shook hands, ignoring the twinges in his back and arms.

Kris and Cale chatted with the soldiers until they were dropped off at Cale’s apartment, where Kris was staying while they recorded. Walking through the door, Kris couldn’t believe that everything was as they’d left it that morning. It was surreal, how nothing looked different – there was the half-drunk coffee which he’d forgotten, the shirt Cale had draped over a chair, even a half-eaten doughnut on a plate. He stared at it for a while. He’d never felt so tired in his life. And he still didn’t know what was really going on. He decided he’d just stare at the doughnut some more. He was sure it would have the answers.

It was only when Cale grabbed his arm that Kris realised he’d been starting to sway. Cale pushed him to the sofa and made him hold onto a mug of coffee – it was on the tip of his tongue to ask him where he’d got the fresh coffee from when he saw Cale get his own mug out of the microwave. Cale shrugged.

“I know it’s gross, but at least it’s hot. Here, have a doughnut . . .”

Kris started to giggle, and just shook his head when Cale looked at him questioningly.

“I’m ok – I just. Really, really tired.”

Cale clapped him on the shoulder and switched on the tv. Another surreal moment – the station wasn’t showing any Emergency Alert System headers, no tones sounded, reminding people to pay attention, it was just an old Buffy episode, and the other stations Cale switched to had reruns on too. But then there was the news ticker running along the base of the screen, though there wasn’t much news, just the same message repeated over and over.

 _Please remain in your homes and keep calm. A message from the President will follow in ten minutes._

Message? Ortega’d said it would be a press conference. So what was it? And where was the rest of the news? It was all being censored, he thought apprehensively, so that people wouldn’t freak out. Which meant that there was a lot to freak out about. Still, Kris felt as though he was floating, and couldn’t bring himself to care very much. He sipped his disgusting coffee and nibbled at his stale doughnut, and they were the best things he’d ever tasted.

Just when he felt he was drifting off, Buffy disappeared, and the inside of a tv studio replaced the interior of the Magic Shop. The anchors looked considerably less polished and studied than usual – Kris noticed the less than perfect hair, the red eyes, and the fact that one of them couldn’t control his shaking hands. Still they managed to hand over to the White House with some aplomb, and the President was already there, waiting at the podium.

“Good evening. Today, at exactly 1pm, Eastern Standard Time, the entire world suffered a blackout, during which everyone on the planet lost consciousness for two minutes and 18 seconds.”

Whatever else the President intended to say was drowned out by the sudden wave of shouting from the Press pit, which Kris hadn’t noticed was three quarters full of people. The president waved his hands irritably – probably against protocol, but at this point Kris thought only the worst stickler would actually care.

“There have been millions of casualties in various car crashes, plane crashes and other accidents all over the world. A full investigation into what has occurred will be carried out by a multi-national task force, but for the time being we must also concentrate on relief efforts and treatment of the many millions of injuries, both in our country and worldwide. I urge my fellow Americans to donate blood as I myself have done so that hospitals will not fall short-“

Again he was interrupted; someone yelling about the Chinese, another about Al Qaeda; Kris even thought he heard something about the Russians in there.

“Please, one at a time!” The Press Secretary had come out of his daze, though he was dressed so casually Kris wondered if he’d _been_ the Press Secretary that morning.

“Let me make myself absolutely clear,” the President started, clearly determined to nip any craziness in the bud. “This was a worldwide event. _Planet wide_ ,” he emphasised. “It is far beyond any terrorist organization to have orchestrated. And our allies in Eastern Europe have suffered as disastrously as we have. My fellow Americans, we have been brought to our knees, but we can still stand. We have lost many friends, but our country still exists. “

Someone standing out of camera range must have given him a signal, because Obama looked to the left, nodded, and then faced the camera again.

“My fellow Americans, it is with deep sadness that I must inform of a loss to our government and to our nation. Vice President Biden was aboard Air Force Two which was landing when the Blackout struck – I am informed there were no survivors. I have waited to announce this until all of the relatives of the people aboard that plane were informed of their loss.”

“But what about the _dreams_?”

Someone in the press pit was clearly at the end of their tether – the question came out almost like a wail. Kris found himself gripping the mug so tightly that his hands turned white. The President looked even more pissed off than before, as if he’d hoped to get away with not tackling the subject at all. For a moment Kris wondered why he didn’t have some scientist explaining it all to them, and then he remembered: millions dead (including, he guessed, some scientists). It almost didn’t seem real, a number that big. The Press Secretary tried to step forward, but the President waved him off, shaking his head.

“From an informal survey, it seems that during the blackout, most people had some kind of . . . dream.” He seemed to hate the sound of that word. “All of them were centred on the same day, the-“ and he was interrupted again.

“29th April, 2011!”

The murmuring started again. The President nodded slowly and reluctantly. Kris knew how he was feeling. It was one thing to enjoy watching science fiction, or reading it, but another to be actually living it. Now he realised why the Chinese felt that ‘May you live in interesting times’ was an actual curse.

“We don’t know if any of these dreams have any significance whatsoever. It would be premature to jump to any conclusions.”

He seemed to be glaring at one person in particular, and the camera swung over to focus on her. Reading her lips wasn’t that hard – she was just saying one phrase, over and over: the future. In this, if nothing else, Kris agreed with Obama; best not jump to any conclusions, they had enough problems as it was. And Kris didn’t really want to hear anything about the dreams – then he’d have to think about his own.

Kris jumped when Cale spoke; he’d almost forgotten Cale was there.

“You ok, buddy?” Kris looked at Cale, who was staring at him, worriedly. Kris tried to shake and nod his head at the same time, unwilling to actually speak.

The president was whisked off the podium, and the press conference was over. They handed back to the studio, and instructions started scrolling up the screen; how to track down relatives, and which hospitals to go to with injuries, depending on the area. Both anchors stressed that the rules of triage would be followed at all medical centers, and if the injury was not life-threatening to find first-aiders rather than cause hold-ups which could cost lives.

Kris was almost dozing off again when the studio picture switched to shaky camera footage – there was a news ticker on the screen which repeated, over and over, that the footage was dedicated to the tv personnel who had died in news helicopter crashes. From what he could see of this footage, someone with a camera had been allowed on an army helicopter.

As the LA freeways came into sight, Kris was stunned by the devastation: the unchecked fires, the piled up cars, scattered as carelessly as if from a child’s toybox. Even though the news ticker reminded viewers that the film had been taken earlier in the afternoon, before rescue services had reached the streets, it was still horrible to see. Various details leapt out at Kris: a man’s shoe in the middle of a busy intersection, a taco stand which had been completely overturned and was on fire, and a body, which Kris only caught a glimpse of before the camera whipped away hurriedly.

So many cars, all crashed into each other, he mused. The most splendid of what the city had to offer, some of the finest pieces of machinery, all useless, all death-traps in the end; he saw big limousines, black Mercedes with tinted windows, here and there some tiny European hatchbacks, crushed like tin-cans under SUVs.

And there, just out of focus, was a black Mustang. A new one, too. Hanging halfway off an overpass. Empty. Even as his thoughts started to stutter, Kris told himself not to be ridiculous, thousands of that model had been sold. He willed the cameraman to focus, and for a split second the car was clear, but he still couldn’t make out the licence plate, not that he knew Ad- no, he wasn’t even going to think it.

Kris closed his eyes, and he must have dozed off for a few seconds, because when he opened them again, they were ‘back to the studio.’ And this station, this local affiliate was going to get into so much trouble, Kris thought, drunk with exhaustion. Homeland security or whoever was going to kick their asses, _Obama_ was going over there personally to yell at them, because they were scrolling down a list of dead celebrities. Was this real? Was he dreaming? He pinched himself, and looked around – no, Cale was there, looking at the tv with an expression of disgust Kris felt sure mirrored his own.

"What the fuck do they think they’re doing?" Cale sounded pissed. Kris wished he had the energy to say something too. "They’re people too, they don’t deserve to be announced like- oh, fuck. Oh, _shit_. Kris-"

But Kris had already spun around to look at the tv. At first he couldn’t see anything, like his eyes were refusing to interpret the words on the screen. But in the middle of a list of names, between Hal Holbrook and Heidi Montag, there it was. Adam Lambert.

Kris must have blacked out again, because when he came to he was bent over the toilet, throwing up, the coffee just as bitter and disgusting coming back up as it had been going down. Cale was holding him up, murmuring something, trying to be reassuring.

“They’re wrong. Just. No. Cale, he’s not dead, he can’t be-”, and he retched helplessly, his stomach heaving again.

Cale just nodded, humouring him, clearly not getting it. But in Kris’s dream, Adam wasn't- Kris couldn't even finish the thought. All Kris had to do was believe in what he'd seen. No, Adam couldn’t be dead. The dream, it was real. It just had to be.


	4. lost and found

_. . . News coming in from all over the world . . . in Asia, populations react in shock to what happened as they slept . . . our correspondent in Korea reports of . . . reeling from news of the royal family decimated, the English rally together and . . ._

Kris could hear the mumbling of the tv from the couch, but couldn’t bring himself to get up, or even use the remote. From the kitchen he could hear Cale talking to someone, and occasionally raising his voice, but it was like Cale was speaking in a different language.

The sound of the news programmes kept intruding into his thoughts, breaking up his concentration. Now they were going over the President’s Speech again, analysing every word, now they were showing another speech, this time by the English Prime Minister. Sometimes he tried to watch, to take his mind off his thoughts, but they just kept showing the same deserted freeway footage, over and over again; he wanted to look for the mustang, but then didn’t want to see it there. Maybe if it wasn’t there, then Adam would be ok. Then, in the hours since the blackout, the news media had been sent hundreds of blurry cell phone videos, some of them showing people collapsing to the ground, others showing the aftermath of the disaster.

In one, which they kept repeating, some kid with the brightest red hair Kris had ever seen was being told that he was the King now. Not that Kris could actually hear anything, but the producers had helpfully added subtitles, as an oldish guy with a beard talked earnestly while a lady in her sixties with a shock of white hair just hugged the kid, who kept shaking his head. He was older than Kris had thought at first, in his mid-twenties.

Why was he watching this again? Right, because he hoped they’d say something about Adam. But all they showed were foreign correspondents, after they finally managed to get satellite link-ups going again, and this kid, and some old footage of a really huge wedding. Kris knew he should know who it was but his mind refused to focus on anything except Adam. King of what, anyway? And who cares, he thought mulishly.

Nothing made sense anymore – the whole _world_ had blacked out? How was that possible? Millions dead, the greatest disaster in human history, it was just too huge. Too big, he couldn’t handle it. And every time he tried, he just saw that list, again. And the car. He still remembered the day they’d got the cars, and that awful presentation thing; but Adam hadn’t cared about the cameras, he’d just loved the car. Kris had to smile, remembering Adam revving the motor and sneering for the cameras, and then giggling. He tried to focus on the screen through the tears in his eyes, only to catch the tail-end of some anchor’s sound-bite, “. . . and the preparations for a Royal Wedding will have to be changed to a Royal funeral . . .”

Funeral. Lots of funerals, more like. Just the word brought that moment to mind again, when he’d seen Adam’s name on that list. Before and after. Before he saw the name, and after. And the mustang, hanging over the freeway, that was a picture he couldn’t get out of his head, either. Maybe if he’d been quicker to leave the studio, he could have . . . what? What the hell could he have done? He rubbed his eyes, and realised his face was wet . . . again. He had to cut it out with the crying. This wasn’t helping. There _had_ to be some mistake, he’d seen Adam in that dream, whatever it was, and- his frantic thoughts were interrupted by Cale’s voice, which had been steadily getting louder.

“I don’t _care_ what your policy is, Kris has a right to know what’s happened to his, his friend . . . “

The strange emphasis Cale put on ‘friend’ made Kris blush, slightly. He should have known Cale would guess what was wrong with him; he wondered why Cale was being so understanding, though.

“No, I’m not going to call Lizzie and ask her to contact you – I don’t even know if she’s alive or dead, or if her family’s safe. The hell do you think I am, making her work today? Kris is managed by 19, he’s with Sony, what more do you want?”

Kris felt a sudden rush of shame; he hadn’t even thought of Lizzie, let alone tried to contact her. But every time he wanted to think of something else, he just flashed on that car, suspended in space, and his imagination added Adam, sprawled over the seats, his eyes open, blank, staring.

Cale listened for a few seconds, and then evidently interrupted whoever was on the line.

“Family? You’re asking if he isn’t family? Well, maybe if they lived somewhere else, Kris would be.”

Kris winced. Now Cale was really pushing it. But that must have worked, because a smile was spreading on Cale’s face, and Kris felt a sudden flash of hope. He got up and staggered towards Cale, his mind racing. Please, oh please. Cale hung up, and saw Kris staring at him. He grinned.

“Adam’s alive. But . . . he’s unconscious, or in a coma, she wasn’t clear.”

Kris swallowed a few times, not trusting his voice to sound cracked and hoarse. He felt like he hadn’t talked for years.

“Who . . . who did you talk to?”

Cale winced slightly, no doubt thinking of all the things he’d implied in his conversation.

“Someone at Sony – the hospital got in touch with them to get Adam’s parents to the hospital; he’s at UCLA.”

Suddenly Kris couldn’t stand anymore – his knees turned to jello and he collapsed on a chair.

“Jesus.” He buried his face in his hands. “Cale, I don’t know what . . . I don’t know how . . . “

When he looked up again, Cale was staring at him. The look on his face was difficult to read.

“ _Now_ can you tell me what this all was about, after I’m probably fired from your band?”

Kris smiled. “I won’t let them fire you.” Cale raised his eyebrows. “Ok, I get it; no changing the subject.” Kris took a couple of deep breaths, trying to psych himself up for it, not sure anymore how much Cale had guessed. “In the dream, or vision, whatever it was . . . I was with Adam.”

Cale shrugged. “So? You weren’t with us, so you were, what, catching up with Adam . . . big deal . . .”

Kris couldn’t help the blush that he knew was spreading all over his face.

“I wasn’t just with Adam, I was _with_ Adam. Like . . . you know . . .”

He trailed off, conscious that he’d been making some strange gestures with his hands, and put them down, quickly. Don’t make me say it, he was pleading with Cale in his head. His face grew hotter and hotter as he saw the slow comprehension spread over Cale’s face.

“Fuck, Kris! I only said that to the PA ‘cause I thought she’d spill quicker that way! I never thought . . . Kris, what about Katy? What about the vows you made?”

Kris wished the ground would open and swallow him up.

“Don’t you think I’ve been asking myself the same things, over and over, since this morning? D’you think I wanted all this? I didn’t ask to see myself and Adam fu- doing . . . stuff . . . in a freaking vision!”

Cale winced probably at the mental picture he was getting; Kris didn’t care, he’d had the surround sound version. And if he, Kris, could take it, then so could Cale. Though, not in the same way, obviously. Oh crap. He hoped he hadn’t said that out loud.

“When we all got up, after . . . I just wanted to forget it. It was just some messed up dream. But then I saw his name on that list, and they said he was dead, and . . .”

Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t he just say it, that he loved Adam? Because that was the truth, because mixed with the horror at Adam’s ‘death’, there’d been a moment of love so intense he still felt dizzy with it. He just knew that if Adam was truly dead, nothing would ever matter to him again. And now that he knew Adam was alive, he had to go to him and see if he felt the same way.

“I have to get to him, I just . . .”

Kris realised that he’d got up at some point, that he had his hand on the door, but something was keeping him back. That something turned out to be Cale’s arm across his chest.

“What the hell? Cale. You know I gotta . . . “

Cale was speaking very, very slowly. Slower than usual, even. Kris felt resentful – he wasn’t a kid, or mentally . . . not there . . . what did Cale think he was doing?

“Kris. It’s nearly 10. We can’t go anywhere right now. The roads will still be closed off and . . . Kris? Buddy?”

Kris swallowed. He looked out of the window, and Cale was right, it was pitch black outside. One of the streetlights was flickering on and off, on and off, and Kris felt such an intense wave of frustration he just wanted to yell and punch the wall.

“What if.” Kris cleared his throat and tried again. “What if he . . . dies. During the night. Just drifts away. Sometimes that happens . . .”

He blinked furiously, holding back the tears that threatened _again_ , for fuck’s sake, he had to pull himself together. He glanced at Cale, who was grinning and shaking his head.

“ _Drift away?_ Kris, dude, I don’t know Adam half as well as you do, and even I know he’s not _drifting_ anywhere. Come on, sit down, and we’ll play a while; you’ll feel better.”

But whatever Cale thought would be good for him would have to wait. There was his phone ringing again; except it wasn’t his phone, it was Skype, on his laptop, which they’d left open, and out of the corner of his eye he could see who was calling. Katy. Of course. Perfect timing. Somewhere, someone was laughing at him.

Cale grabbed the laptop and pushed it into Kris’s arms.

“Go on, speak in the bedroom. You’ll need some privacy.” Cale gave him a meaningful look. Kris knew he had to tell Katy, but did it have to be now? He hadn’t cheated. Yet, his mind reminded him. Not yet. But he would. And in a way, emotionally, he already had.

“Hey honey.” He smiled at Katy, trying to look cheerful. She didn’t look very rested either; she smiled back at him, tentatively.

“Are you ok? You look tired.” Kris immediately wanted to yawn, but managed to swallow it.

“It’s been a crazy day; Cale and I, and the others, we helped clear a road, or two . . . How are your parents?” he continued, immediately feeling guilty that he hadn’t asked before.

“They’re fine! I managed to get through to them on the phone, and I just finished talking to them on Skype . . .”

Kris didn’t understand – why hadn’t she gone over to them? Unless . . .

“Katy? What . . . You’re not at home, are you?”

Katy blushed and looked guilty, shaking her head.

“I flew over last night . . . I wanted to surprise you. Surpise!”

For the first time since their conversation had started, Kris really looked at what was behind her; yes, it wasn’t familiar at all. He could only shake his head, and smile at her. Just seeing her made him feel hopelessly guilty.

“Kris. I . . . need to tell you something.” Katy looked even guiltier than before, guiltier than he felt. But there was that stubborn look on her face; there was something she needed to tell him. Kris knew that had been her therapist’s advice, that secrets had to be told, that things kept inside would become toxic for her. But still, what could Katy possibly have to confess to him? He could see himself in the corner of the screen, mouth open like a fish, and closed it, hurriedly. He cleared his throat, wondering if he needed to respond, but she continued, not waiting for his answer.

“You know how everyone had these weird dreams, and how some of them were the same?” She sounded like she was trying to break some bad news gently, and suddenly Kris had a burst of wild hope. What if he didn’t have to be the bad guy? He immediately felt ashamed. This was his marriage he was so happily throwing away. A sigh from the speakers brought his thoughts back to the present. Katy was looking at him, impatiently.

“Yeah . . . they were saying on tv that maybe the dreams are the . . . future? Or something.”

She nodded eagerly, and then another emotion crossed her face – there was some shame there too. Kris found his hand clenching, his fingernails cutting into his palm.

“I’ve been watching the news all day and they’ve even given the dreams a name, calling them ‘flashforwards’. Isn’t that weird? And they’re gonna make a website where everyone can type in their flashforward and so we can find the people we saw, if we didn’t know them, and . . . “

Katy was gabbling on, getting more and more animated, but then she stopped, suddenly. She blushed.

“I shouldn’t be excited, I know. So many people . . . dead. Or hurt. But I had such an amazing dream.” Her eyes glazed slightly, and Kris knew she was back there, in her vision.

“It was weird, at first. I couldn’t move my body, it was like I was just a spectator, you know?” Kris nodded. He knew, alright. Katy continued without really pausing for his response.

“I was wearing a uniform, I was a cop! I could see my arms, and my reflection in a car window . . . I think. I had a gun pointed at someone, a gun! And then I was yelling at him, to put it down, put it down. And then _he_ moved his gun up and I pulled the trigger! But it was weird, it didn’t feel real.”

Katy paused, lost in thought. “And _then_ someone yelled “Cut!”, and everyone froze, even me, and someone else shouted ‘that’s great, we’re clear,’ and I looked around, and this alley was just, just fake! There were people all around, and cameras and mikes, and then the guy I shot just got up! And he came up to me and hugged me, and then someone else clapped me on the back and told me I did a great job, and there were _actors_ all around, people I’ve seen on tv! And then . . .”

Katy stopped. Suddenly she couldn’t meet Kris’s eyes anymore.

“This guy just came up to me, I’ve never seen him before. And he just grabs me and . . . we kiss . . . and someone behind me laughs and says something like, see you in make-up, and then, and then. I woke up. And I was lying on the floor of my hotel room, and Kris, I _swear_. I swear I don’t know this guy, and I never cheated, never!”

Katy had tears in her eyes now. She was looking pleadingly at Kris, and he just didn’t know what to say to reassure her, but he had to try. His flashforward, or whatever they wanted to call it, was so much worse than hers. He couldn’t let her feel guilty about this.

“Katy, please. Please don’t cry.” She knuckled her eyes hurriedly and gave him a watery smile.

“In my dream. I wasn’t. We weren’t.” How could he tell her about Adam? About having sex with Adam, happy, giggly sex with a man, how could he tell her this? She would have to find out eventually, but he couldn’t do this to her now. “In the flashforward, I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring. I was with someone else.”

Katy had covered her mouth and was staring at him. Even though there was shock in her eyes, he hoped he could see some relief, too. He desperately hoped it wasn’t just wishful thinking on his part.

“Was she . . . someone new? Or someone we know? Kris?”

He shook his head, hardly daring to look at her, terrified that he’d give himself away. “Katy, don’t ask me that. I can’t answer that right now.”

Katy nodded. She hesitated at first, and then spoke, slowly, carefully.

“Maybe we shouldn’t just act on these dreams. Maybe they were just, you know, made up stuff.”

He knew she was saying that for his benefit – he knew he didn’t sound half as joyful and ecstatic as she did about this future where she finally had the tv part which she’d dreamed of, even if he wasn’t a part of it. And maybe that was for the best, a small voice inside him pointed out. Maybe Katy, after seeing a future where she was coping without his support, felt freer than she’d ever been.

“Oh baby.” If only you knew what I saw, you’d ask me where my secret gay porn stash was hidden.

“There’s too many coincidences and shared dreams for this to be nothing, or wishful thinking.” Besides, if anything else, he could honestly say that he’d never wished for sex with Adam – now that he’d experienced it, kind of, he could say that it was good. Great, even. Amazing, if he was going to be perfectly honest with himself. But he’d never even considered it, before. Before the blackout.

“But what about God, Kris? What does God want? What if we’re going against His will?”

Kris felt so ashamed he could barely think, for a second. He hadn’t prayed once, today. He swallowed, hard, and thought for a few seconds before answering her.

“We have to believe God sent us this, don’t we? Because otherwise . . . I don’t know how else to see it.” And still keep my faith, he nearly added, but didn’t. He couldn’t believe that all that had happened today was just a random blip in the universe – the visions had to mean _something_.

Katy nodded slowly. “I’m so scared. It’s like everything is new, and I’m going on a journey, and I don’t know the way.” You and me both, honey, Kris thought. “Can we pray together for a while?” Her voice sounded scared and small, like a child’s.

“That’s a great idea!” He smiled at her, finally managing to be sincere.

It _was_ a good idea. Prayer would help him centre himself, he could ask for guidance, though he suspected that he’d been given all the guidance he was going to get. But he could pray for Adam, too. And that was what they did, until Katy’s eyes started closing, and Kris couldn’t stifle the yawns anymore.

Kris set his alarm for 6, not wanting to waste any more time sleeping than he had to. He lay down, his mind still buzzing with the day’s events, Katy’s vision, and all the crazy shit that day had thrown at him. But one thought stood out in the confusion. I’m on my way, Adam. Just hold on.


	5. Harry's day is even worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a strange in-between chapter - it happens in the story, but in another country, and to (very) different (Royal) people. This is what being bombarded by Royal Wedding news from all sides does to someone who's trying to write an apocalyptic story.
> 
> My deepest apologies for this total digression, but I am blocked, and this chapter is like one of those plunger things, I hope.

Afterwards, Harry never could remember exactly what he’d been thinking before the blackout. He must have been thinking _something_ , but it was like it had all vanished. And even his vision wasn’t up to much, not compared to what some of the lads had seen. He’d just been in one of the nicer rooms in the palace, talking to David Cameron, of all people. If he’d had the choice, there would have been a million birds he’d have been ‘talking’ to, though he wouldn’t have chosen that room to do it in; his Gran would’ve had his balls for that.

No, that was it; incredibly boring conversation with that twat, and then, waking up to see a complete cock-up. Crashed jeeps, destroyed buildings, and one of the helis a smoking ruin on the landing pad. Harry hadn’t thought, had just started running, trying to see if anyone was still alive in there. And from that moment on, he hadn’t stopped, except for a few minutes here and there to eat some crisps one of the boys had found in the mess, and drink some water.

He’d tried calling his dad and Wills on his mobile, once the network came up again, but he just couldn’t get through. He’d even used the extra special secret number to get his Gran, direct like – that number wasn’t even on his mobile, because herself never trusted him not to leave it somewhere (“with one of your floozies”, he remembered her saying. It’d been on the tip of his tongue to yell that Chelsy wasn’t a floozy, she was going to be a solicitor one day. But Grandad had been glaring at him so he’d swallowed his words. He still remembered the massive, three hour bollocking he’d got after the whole costume thing, followed by more hours of Blitz and concentration camp footage.) Still, the number just rang and rang after he’d typed it in with shaking fingers, and he resolved to get to work and put the whole thing out of his mind. Dad and Wills were ok, they just had to be.

Harry wasn’t the highest ranking officer there, which was a relief, and there was a sergeant there too, so he could just put his hands to rescue. His bodyguards kept trying to make him leave, but as the C.O. pointed out, they didn’t know what was safe enough for him; one look at the smoking ruins of the helicopter made them all wince.

And nobody really knew what had happened, either, or so they said. Harry wasn’t too sure about that. He’d caught a couple of the more unfamiliar lads giving him sideways glances, but he pretended not to see them. Yes, _pretended_. He knew he’d done some pretty stupid things, but he wasn’t thick. Not really. Just sometimes he did things without thinking. And then Dad and Wills would just give him those looks, and he knew he’d bollocksed something up again. The photos of him completely rat-arsed and falling over had been the limit for his Gran – she hadn’t even argued when he’d begged to be sent to the front line; she probably thought they were well rid of him.

The regiment had been moving along the road to Southampton and co-ordinating the relief efforts along the way; there’d even been some helicopters in the air, and Harry’d been determinedly avoiding his bodyguards’ gaze. He didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want to focus on anything except the work that needed to be done, anything to stop him thinking about his father and brother, and why they hadn’t contacted him yet. They’d stopped the huge column near the site of a horrendous car pile-up and were doing their best to help people, while covering up the remains of others who were beyond help. He’d had to stop several times (the smell, he didn’t think he’d ever get it out of his nostrils) and it was during one of these breaks that he noticed loud voices and arguments coming from the other end of the column.

Harry started walking in that direction, irritably shrugging off his bodyguard. He was sure it wasn’t terrorists – there was something familiar about the voice, and now that he got closer he could see two civvies trying to get through the checkpoint they’d set up. There was a man and a woman arguing with the guard, and the man almost looked like-

“I am the Archbishop of Canterbury, and you _will_ let me through!”

Fuck me, Harry thought. What’s crazy old Rowan doing here? He can’t want to talk to _me_ , surely not. Still, he started walking faster in that direction. Maybe he knew something about Dad, Harry thought.

And then he stopped. Because the woman with the Archbishop was Camilla, and no. No. He didn’t want to hear this. The closer she got, the more detail he could see – her eyes were reddened and swollen, her hair was more of a mess than usual, and her hands were clenched together, but she saw him, and tried to give him a smile with shaking lips.

His heartbeat seemed to be getting louder and louder; he was amazed it wasn’t deafening everyone else. Once they finally got close to him, neither of them seemed to know what to say. He looked from one to the other, wildly.

The Archbishop cleared his throat.

“Your M-, I mean.” He stopped, and Camilla glared at him. Harry wasn’t prepared to acknowledge the gaffe. Because it _must_ have been a mistake. Anything else would be unthinkable.

He started again.

“I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your grandmother, the Queen, has died.”

Harry nodded almost automatically – he’d been expecting it, so many people had died, he’d carried so many bodies away. But why tell him? Shouldn’t they be telling his Dad? He realised that Camilla was gripping his hands tightly – she must have done this at some point, but he couldn’t think when.

“Your father was on his way to the Palace when the blackout occurred. I’m afraid that the car crashed and . . .”

The Archbishop swallowed, visibly. Harry found himself nodding involuntarily, even as his mind was screaming . . . this was mad, just mad. His face was wet now, and he just wanted this man to go away, and leave him alone. A cracked voice that he didn’t even recognize as his own was speaking.

“Are you sure, really sure that he’s . . . that he’s dead?” He remembered another occasion like this, his father coming into their room in the middle of the night, and he nodded again when the Archbishop just answered, “Yes,” in a hushed voice.

Harry closed his eyes. This was it. He was going to hear the words, and nothing would ever be the same again. He managed to let go of Camilla’s hands, and wiped his face carefully.

“My brother?”

“Prince William’s helicopter had just taken off on a training flight when the blackout occurred. The helicopter crashed and . . . His remains were identified by . . . “

Harry just covered his eyes at this, and wished he could cover his ears, too, and never hear anything again. He could hear the Archbishop clearing his throat and trying to continue.

“There were no survivors. I am so very sorry.”

Harry knew he was shaking his head from side to side, he knew he had to pull himself together, but he just couldn’t. This was ridiculous, this was some insane film which he’d been thrown into, some nightmare and he desperately wanted to wake up, wanted everyone to burst out laughing and tell him it’d all been a joke, ha ha, very funny lads. Insanely, he kept thinking, I can’t be King Henry, the last one was a complete nutter! They must have some other contingency plan, surely.

“Your Majesty, you are the King now.”

Or not.

From behind him he could sense that the bodyguards had drawn closer, everyone seemed to be closer, and they all started walking forward at once, urging him along with them, back to a car he could see in the distance. The Archbishop was talking, talking, but Harry couldn’t make out the words through the crazy buzzing in his head. He needed to do something, to stop them, and before he could stop himself, he just yelled, “Wait,” and “No!” and time slowed down again. When he came back to himself, the Archbishop was studying him intently.

“Are you going to refuse the crown?”

His tone was studiedly neutral, and for a moment, Harry wanted to say yes, to refuse, to tell them all to leave him alone. He’d never been meant for this, he was the _spare_ , and no-one had ever expected him to actually be _needed_. Oh yes, everyone had told him the stories of his mum saying that he’d make the better king, but he’d been a little boy then. Things were different now, and he allowed himself a twinge of pain when he wished his mother was by his side to help him with this.

But whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see was his Gran, and the look on her face whenever the topic of Uncle David came up. It wasn’t just that she blamed him for her father’s early death, it was that he’d shirked his duty. “In this family, we do our duty,” he could still hear her saying. Yes, he’d do his duty. But he’d do it _his_ way.

“No, I’m not going to refuse.” He could already sense the Archbishop sighing in relief, or was it disappointment? No matter.

“But I’m not coming back to London right now.”

The Archbishop started spluttering.

“Sir, the Privy Council, the announcement, they insist . . .”

Harry shook his head.

“Don’t you think people have other things on their mind right now than the monarchy? Right now, this is where I’m needed, and this is where I’m staying. I want the announcement to be made later. If you want me to address the nation,” and here Harry couldn’t help pausing, incredulous at his own words. Fuck me, address the nation. He shook his head, and tried again.

“Look, write something for me to say, and I’ll say it, but I’ll still be adding this: right now we need to pull together and get back on our feet. And I’ll be starting right here.”

Harry looked around him for the first time, and realized that a small crowd had gathered. Camilla was smiling with tears in her eyes, and nodded at him when he caught her eye. His C.O. was there too, probably wanting to talk to him about extra protection, and he was surprised for a minute that they were actually letting him do this. He even glimpsed for a split second someone across the street hurriedly putting away a mobile phone, and he was sure the whole scene would be online soon. No matter. This was his life now, more than ever. And he wasn’t going to let them down, his father, his brother, his Gran. He was going to make them proud.

 

 _ **Notes** : Science Fiction is all about the what if; while writing my Flashforward Kradam story, and being bombarded with Royal Wedding craziness from all sides, it just occurred to me: what if everyone died and Harry became King? And I wrote Kris watching a small scene which had been sold to a tv station, and then of course I had to write the scene._

 _Small note about Royal Protocol: You only call a King or Queen "Your Majesty", everyone else is "your Royal Highness". Also, King Edward VIII (who abdicated) was known to his family as 'David' (just as King George, his successor, was Bertie to his relatives). For a list of all the stupid things Prince Harry has done, Google is your friend._

 _Normal Kradam coverage will resume soon: I'm hoping writing this weirdness will have helped me unblock myself._


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